🚀 go-pugleaf

Chambery Pass


The foot-peg sent off a shower of sparks as the bike leaned heavily
into the switchback turn. The squealing metal mixed with the
throaty roar of the engine echoed off the canyon walls. The trail
of sparks stopped and was quickly resumed as the bike leaned onto
the opposite peg. The sparks lit up the roadside and illuminated
the blood-red, thigh high, boots of the rider. The boots followed
the muscled contours of the calves and ended in a garter which held
the boot-tops to the rider's belt. The jacket which followed the
contours of the rider's upper body with a similar vacu-formed
adhesion, was similarly red. Zippers crossed the sleeves and thorax
of the jacket. The central zipper was undone to expose a deep
v-neck held in check by the pointed breasts of the woman within.

Her face was hidden within the darkly tinted visor that extended
from the helmet to a chin-guard. Her wrists flexed with grace as
she throttled the bike down to clutch and heel the bike over onto
the opposite peg to negotiate another turn. She was riding hard. At
Neuchatel she had picked up the saddlebags packed with cocaine and
she was hastening through the Chambery pass in order to arrive in
Grenoble for breakfast. The sun was just beginning to glaze the
mountain peaks to her right. The valley which was still thousands
of meters below to her left was still in darkness.

Had anyone been able to match her pace or focus on her blurred
passage they might have noted that she wore nothing from where the
tops of her boots ended to where her jacket began. She liked the
sensation of the cold air rushing against her exposed sex. She
liked the vibration rippling through her thighs as the peg
continued to scar the asphalt around another corner.

Her name was Zoe. She was 14 years old. She spent most of her time
attending the international girl's school in Neuchatal where a
hundred rich daddies sent their daughters to "finish" their
educations. Zoe had learned to masturbate... with an amazing
variety of devices, but had also discovered motorcycles.

There was no pursuers to run from and no deadline to meet. Zoe was
addicted to danger and the edge that filled her soul when her
velocity balanced delicately with death. Running Cocaine was just
a sideline... running down mountain passes with a streamer of
burning metal in her wake was her life.

The road flattened out to wind through the valley floor. Her front
tire briefly left the ground as she kicked through three gears to
bring her bike up to 192 kph. The sun peeked through a cleft in the
mountains as she shattered the silence of Villard-Bonnot, the last
sleepy village before Grenoble.

After the drop off to the usual greasy merchant in Grenoble, she
was taking the rest of the weekend off. By noon, she hoped to be in
Paris. Paris was her second pleasure. So immense and teeming with
life. She fingered the stiletto which rested against her left
thigh. Paris was such a pleasure for her because it was the only
place in France where she could kill people, and get away with it.
She enjoyed murder... random murder... almost as much as she loved
riding.

-- 
Mark V. Giovannetti                       These are my opinions.
E-mail: giovanne@ccrs.emr.ca
                                  Smile, You'll feel better.